Page 8 of The Knotty Omega

Doctor Medina can’t get me a new prescription right now. With the illegal sales of experimental drugs running rampant, I’m glad that I took a photo of the bottle in the toilet at the bar before I left. The company who makes the TruBond pills just needs to review, and verify that I’m telling the truth before they can renew my prescription. Monday, at the latest, they said.

At least I can do my job from home. Calling in sick had been easy enough, I just wish that I had remembered to do a grocery run a few days ago. While I wait for my lunch to be delivered, I work on answering another Knotty Omega submission.

Dear Knotty Omega,

My first heat is approaching, and I don’t have a pack. The doctors say my system isn’t compatible with heat suppressants, so that’s not an option for me. Being away from my nest for my heat makes me nervous, and I don’t want just any random alpha to help me through it. How can I ensure I don’t suffer through my heat alone, but also not hate myself when it’s over?

Signed,

Don’t Bring the Heat

I sigh. This is a more common issue than people think. The pressure to find a pack becomes insurmountable when an omega’s first heat starts to approach, especially when they can’t take heat suppressants. If someone is lucky enough to not have a family that will try to set them up with a horrible pack, their options are either a heat clinic, the “Alpha-Helper” app, or…the OMS. Heat clinics are great for those who aren’t looking for a commitment, but the app is…sketchy at best. They vet the alphas who register to some degree, but they come to your home, and there is nobody there to monitor for unwanted bites. The Omega Matching Service however…nobody registers at the OMS looking for a heat helper. It’s about as serious as you can get when you’re looking for a pack. Because they’re government funded, it’s a free service for the omegas. They have alphas who imbue cards with their scents so the omegas can have a sense of what they smell like and choose who they’d like to meet, and then provide bodyguards for the meetings.

I’m planning on never having a pack, but if I was, that’s who I would go through.

Dear Don’t Bring the Heat,

Are you against the idea of finding a pack right now? If you don’t have an alpha you know and trust to help you through your heat, and you don’t want to go to a clinic with trained helpers, the only other option is to go to the Omega Matching Service. They can provide you a real chance at finding a pack that you might be interested in courting long term. Better hop on the OMS train before things get tooheated!

Signed,

The Knotty Omega

There. Another response sent to Grady.

My phone dings with a text from Archie.

Before I can type out a response, there’s a knock on my door signalling the arrival of my food has me putting my laptop on the coffee table, and I stand, waiting a good thirty seconds before walking to the door. Don’t need anyone getting a whiff of my unbonded scent. Reggie weaves between my legs as I approach, causing me to almost trip over him.

Little bastard.

I open the door, ready for a heaping serving of chicken and hummus, but instead—

“Laura?” I yelp in surprise, my eyes widening at the woman who is standing in my doorway holding a small tupperware container of soup.

“I just thought I’d bring you some soup since you're sick and say hi to you alpha—” She’s cut off by Reggie hissing at her.

“Reggie!” I scold, then snap my mouth shut, hoping to hell she didn’t just hear me.

Shit, shit shit!

Her eyes have widened to saucers as she looks between me and my little demon.

Then her nostrils flare and I pray to the sun, the moon, and whatever the hell else is out there that she is actually really stupid and won’t put two and two together. But I can see the wheels turning, running through everything I’ve ever said about Reggie in response to her nagging and realizing I never actually called him my alpha.

“Your scent— You—”

Without another word, she snaps her mouth shut, turns on her heel, and walks away.

So she’s not as stupid as I hoped.

God fucking dammit.

Slamming my door, I throw myself back onto the couch and toss an arm over my face.

No doubt Laura is running back to the office as we speak, eager to blab my biggest secret to everyone. I can’t even find myself to be mortified that I’ve let them assume my cat is my alpha for the last year. Instead, every single worst case scenario of what’s going to happen when I go into the office on Monday morning runs through my mind.

That chicken and hummus better be worth it.

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